


Alone

by Luka



Series: We're a Team [13]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Established Relationship, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 20:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20476754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luka/pseuds/Luka
Summary: England's pre-World Cup training camp moves to Italy - but the heat is on in more ways than one.





	Alone

**Author's Note:**

> This instalment has been a while coming, as I got a bit sidetracked! It takes place during the first of England's pre-World Cup training camps in Italy (the final squad hasn't yet been announced). As usual, here's a reminder than this is fiction and that I've hijacked incidents for my own nefarious ends! And here's a warning for lots of swearing ...

George pulled a rugby league magazine out of his rucksack and wandered over to the corner of the departure lounge that the England lads had commandeered. Jonny had saved him a seat, so he sat down, rolling his eyes at the ‘it’s grim oop north’ routine from those around when they saw what he’d got. He and Owen had heard the ‘do you come with subtitles?’ line too often to count.

Boarding for the flight was delayed, so he started scrolling through Instagram on his phone. Around him the others were doing the same, or chatting, or flicking through newspapers. Suddenly there was a volley of swearing from someone sitting behind him - it sounded like JJ, with Ant trying to calm him down.

“Fucking homophobic cunts!”

George turned around and held out his hand for the newspaper. JJ handed it over reluctantly. George looked at the Rugby Paper story and felt sick. The headline read: ‘The real reason why England snub Cipriani’. Under that in a smaller size was: ‘Jones will never drop captain’s boyfriend’.

Ben snatched it straight out of his hands. “Ignore it, kiddo. It’s a pack of fucking poisonous lies.”

The usually even-tempered JJ grabbed the paper back and strode over to where the PR people were. His voice was clear across the lounge: “So what are you going to do about this shit?”

The disturbance drew Eddie and Owen, who’d been talking intently in a corner. Owen’s face darkened when he saw what the newspaper had written. Eddie laid a hand on his arm.

“Leave it to me and these PR experts, son.”

“Don’t sweep it under the carpet Eddie, please …” JJ was seriously agitated by now. 

"Jonathan, it’s OK, son. Leave it to us.”

It must be serious, thought George. Hardly anyone called JJ by his first name, least of all Eddie.

George’s phone beeped and he looked down. It was a text from Cips. 

_Ignore newspaper shit. We both know they’re talking bollocks._

_Sorry you’ve been dragged into all the shit._

_Usual media lies._

_Yeah._

_If you want to talk, you know where I am. x_

_Cheers, mate. I appreciate it._

***

Owen was silent for most of the flight, the only sign of tension the persistent jiggling of his right leg. George looked around, saw that Ben and Jonny, who were across the aisle from them, were engrossed in magazines, and gently touched Owen’s knee.

“Come on, don’t let the fuckers wind you up.”

“I bet they fucking did it because we wouldn’t comment the other day after all that shit with Ashton.”

“It’s a crap rag run by a load of old dinosaurs. Ignore them. No one reads it.”

“You realise Eddie and the PR lot won’t respond to it?”

George nodded. Eddie steadfastly never elaborated on why he didn’t select a certain player. His view was that the information was between him and the person left out, and George respected that. And any mention of Cips was a touchy subject where the coach was concerned. George knew that Eddie simply didn’t trust him not to be a disruptive presence in the dressing room, no matter what Gloucester claimed. The fact he’d been sent off to train separately from the main squad suggested as well that the coach was questioning his fitness. And George knew that was one thing he could never be faulted on - he worked tirelessly on keeping his fitness at the top levels.

“Cips messaged me a bit earlier,” said George – and immediately wished he hadn’t said anything, as Owen’s face went hard.

“What did he say?” The words were clipped.

“Just that we both know that the story’s a pack of lies.” 

Owen nodded and turned away to look out of the window as the plane began its descent.

***

“Even my ears are sweating,” said Jonny plaintively. And he fixed George with a grumpy stare: "I don't know how you always manage to look so immaculate."

"I don't feel very immaculate." George tipped a bottle of lukewarm water over his head. After a brief flash of relief, he went back to feeling like he was in a sauna, not standing in what passed for shade by the side of the training pitch. 

He didn’t think he’d ever had people hosing him down with cold water before during training. The humidity in Treviso was beyond belief - but apparently similar to what they’d encounter in Japan. And the players were shedding unbelievable amounts of weight during training. George had lost 3kg on both the first and second days, and was first on the scales after the session, as he had trouble keeping weight on at the best of times. It felt like he was constantly eating and drinking to replenish what he’d lost.

***

George saw little of Owen off the pitch for the first few days in Italy. As captain, Owen could have had his own room, but he’d elected to share with Mark Wilson. George was in with Elliot, who seemed determined to keep him entertained every minute they weren’t training. And the lad had only one setting - unbearably chirpy. He liked Elliot, he really did, but after three days of being a very unconvincing and reluctant social butterfly George wanted to go into hiding. Eddie had put a three-line whip on meet and greets with players from local clubs and a coaching session for schoolkids, as well as pinning on a smile for events with dignitaries from the area.

The squad had got in mid evening from a buffet laid on by the local mayor, and most of the lads headed for the bar. Owen was in a huddle with a load of the Saracens boys, and George couldn’t catch his eye. So he decided to go and have a shower and then watch some rugby league on his laptop. When he emerged from the shower, running his fingers through his hair, Elliot and Jinx were sitting on Elliot’s bed laughing at some social media post. George’s heart sank. He liked Jamie a lot, but he knew the two of them were joined at the hip and would chat happily for hours.

“Shall we tell you exactly why Eddie will never pick Cips, even if he’s the last fly-half standing? If that was the case, he’d pick Harry Williams at 10 instead!” said Elliot without any preamble.

“Erm … I dunno,” said George, trying to picture the gigantic Exeter prop, long hair flowing, playing fly-half, and wondered if it would be rude to say that he was tired and wanted to go to bed. He didn’t want to have another conversation about Cips – he’d more or less given up checking social media because of the amount of abuse aimed at him following the Gloucester 10’s omission from the squad.

“One. And remember I know him from Wasps. A lot of the stories about him are exaggerated, and I do think he’s grown up a lot at Gloucester, but he’s an accident waiting to happen in any dressing room.” 

“Two. Yes, he’s a bloody talented player, but he goes missing too often if the match isn’t going his way. And his defence isn’t a patch on yours,” said Jamie.

“Three. He’s nowhere near as fit as you are, which is why Eddie packed him off to train separately.”

“Four. Eddie’s built his squad and game plans around you and Faz. He’s hardly likely to drop you, given what a key role you play in running the show. And you’re a fucking top player.” Jamie’s tone was matter of fact.

“Erm, I dunno …” said George again.

They both looked at him and sighed in stereo. “Trust us on this, Fordy,” said Elliot.

“Erm, maybe …”

“Go to bed, kid,” said Jamie.

***

_How u doing? _Cip’s message arrived just as George was finishing a late dinner. Virtually everyone else had gone to the bar.

_I’m good, thanks. Like a fucking sauna here! How are you?_

_Off to California for surfing!_

_Sounds bloody brilliant!_

_Any time you fancy trying it, tell me! Mate of mine’s got a place in Cornwall._

_Thanks, mate!_

And George wondered whether Cips was just being friendly, or whether there was more to it. But he had this sudden urge to try surfing, even though he wasn’t a very good swimmer. He’d always fancied learning to ski as well, but it had never seemed like a risk worth taking while he was playing top-level rugby. And for the first time in his life he started wondering what else he’d missed out on by being so focused on rugby.

He jumped a mile as someone kissed the top of his head and then strong hands began to massage his shoulders. George looked around hurriedly. No one else was around, not even the waiting staff.

“How’s it hanging, our kid?”

“Slightly to the left and pining for you,” said George, leaning back and muffling a squawk as Owen’s fingers dug into the knot that seemed to reside permanently at the base of his neck.

“You can cut that out now!”

George laughed. They both went for the monastic lifestyle when they were with the England set-up on the grounds that if the other lads were deprived of their conjugals, then so should they be. The only departure from this since being in Italy had been a snatched kiss in the lift on the second day.

George’s phone beeped and they both glanced at it. 

_Catch you soon! x_

And suddenly Owen’s fingers dug harder into George’s collarbone.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry … He’s messaging you again?”

“Yeah. Just checking how things are.”

“He’s bad news, Georgie …”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“I don’t.”

“Of course you fucking do. You’ve heard the stories and read the newspaper reports.”

“Yeah? And we all know how the papers get it right all the fucking time. All I know is that he bothered to stand up for me when I was getting shit off Eddie after Ashton and his fucking toadie slagged us off.”

“You know Eddie backs us.”

“You weren’t there and you didn’t hear what he said …”

“Yeah, well, he’s not the sort of person I want as a friend.”

“I think I’m old enough to choose my friends,” snapped George. He picked up his phone and walked out of the dining room.

***

He lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, the air-conditioning blasting freezing air over him. He suddenly felt very alone. It had always been him and Owen united, but suddenly all the shit looked like driving a wedge between them. And fuck, it wasn’t like he even knew Cips well. George had just appreciated someone supporting him when he needed it.

His phone beeped. It was Ben. 

_WTF’s wrong with Faz? He’s stamping around in a filthy mood._

_Dunno, mate. I’m in bed. Wigan lost again?_

The response from Ben was an eye-rolling emoji.

The phone beeped again. This time it was Owen. 

_Georgie, don’t go to bed angry with me. I’m sorry if I upset you._

Yeah, but you’re not sorry for what you said, just that I’m upset, thought George savagely.

Five minutes later his phone beeped one more time. 

_Can’t you see that he wants to drive a wedge between us? I won’t let that happen. I love you too much for that._

He switched his phone to silent and turned on to his side. When Elliot came in, George pretended to be asleep.

***

For a moment he thought he was going to pass out. Then he threw up, frantically hoping no one was watching. He rested his head against a tree trunk and reached for a bottle of water so he could rinse his mouth out. Shit, he hadn’t been sick during a training session for years. But this humidity was a killer.

From the far side of the field, there were shouts and bellowed exhortations. The English pack were training against their Italian counterparts. At least it hadn’t degenerated into a punch-up – the training session with the Georgian forwards during the Six Nations had turned nasty pretty quickly. George sat down with his back against the tree trunk and watched as the session wound up amidst handshakes and back-slapping. Eddie was out there, thanking each of the Italian players individually. 

“You OK, Fordy?”

He hadn’t noticed Steve Borthwick, the forwards coach, approaching.

“Yeah, I’m fine, mate.”

“Several of us think you’re over-doing it. You know bloody well you can over-train, especially in this heat. Have you just thrown up?”

George nodded reluctantly. And he suspected that Steve, a down-to-earth northern guy, had been delegated to talk sense to him.

“In that case, get some water down you and talk to one of the quacks. There’s being tough and there’s being foolhardy, and you’re in danger of tipping over into the latter. You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone, Fordy.”

***

“People are worried about you,” said Ben with no preamble, plonking himself down next to George on one of the chairs in the team room.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a lousy liar, kiddo. You’ve got everyone talking.”

“Yeah? Don’t you think I’m used to it now everyone knows what I do in bed?”

Ben, serious for once, put his hands on his friend’s shoulders. “Listen to me, George. That’s not what I mean and you know that. You’ve got absolutely nothing to prove. Anyone that matters knows exactly why you’re here and why Eddie and the rest of us rate you so highly. Everyone else can fuck off. And if you’ve been checking social media and reading bollocks from fuckwits like Guscott, stop now.”

George looked away. He didn’t spend huge amounts of time on social media, but like picking a scab, it was sometimes difficult to resist. He knew Ben was right, though, and that he shouldn’t read the vitriol that was being spewed out about him. Most of the time it wasn’t even about his sexuality, but instead criticising his shortcomings as a player.

“Come on, kiddo. You’ve got this. Ignore the shitstorm and just focus on the World Cup.”

“Cheers, Len. I, you know …” And he couldn’t finish the sentence, a lump the size of golf ball in his throat. All this shit meant he’d really found out who his friends were.

Ben tousled his hair. “Me and Jonny have got your back. Always."

***

The email from one of the blokes at the RPA arrived mid-afternoon UK time and was addressed to both him and Owen.

_Hi lads. Just to let you know what’s happening with the Sale pair and the social media incident. We’ve made it entirely clear to Chris and Josh that homophobia is not acceptable and if there’s any repeat of the incident, whether it’s on a supposedly closed social media account or not, the RPA will expel the pair of them and that they should take this as both a first and last warning. We’re encouraging Sale and the RFU to get on with their own investigations, but the summer break has slowed everything down to a crawl. Drop us a line if you need any more help. Good luck with camp._

George read through the email and then filed it out of sight. He might have guessed nothing would happen. Almost without thinking he picked up his phone and messaged Cips.

_How’s the surfing going?_

_Awesome! We’re just about to have a breakfast BBQ on the beach._

_Sounds brilliant. I’ll think of you enviously when I’m eating my protein bar in a minute!_

The response was a line of laughing emojis, followed by: _Everything OK?_

_Yeah, not so bad, thanks. Just had email from RPA. Ashton and Durham on first and last warning with them._

And then Cips was FaceTiming him. George hesitated, then accepted the call.

“You OK, Fordy?”

“I’m fine, thanks, mate. Thanks for calling.”

“Just wanted to check in. I’m a bit surprised that the RPA have wimped out. They were good as gold when I had that pre-season shit in Jersey.”

“I wasn’t surprised, to be honest. I suppose they think they’ve got to make it a first warning for them. They say they’re going to push Sale and the RFU to act.”

The Californian early morning sun was behind Cips’ head, almost like a halo. “My money’s on a warning from the RFU as well, given the precedent they set with Billy. And I bet they don’t want to have to reveal the real reason Ashton’s not going to Japan.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right.”

“Hang in there, Fordy. You’ve got a load of good people on your side who don’t give a flying fuck what you do in bed.”

“I know. And you’re a star, mate. I really appreciate the support.”

“Not a problem. And we’ll do the surfing thing for sure some time if you’d like to.”

“I would,” said George honestly. “I dunno, I don’t regret much when it comes to my career, but I’ve missed out on a stack of stuff like surfing and skiing.”

“We can remedy that,” said Cips briskly.

“Thanks. Looking forward to it.”

“Good. Go and get that gourmet protein bar down you!”

George laughed and pulled a face. “Enjoy your break, mate.”

“I will …” And Cips’ closing words were unmistakable. “Love ya, buddy."

***

George and Owen hadn’t spoken directly the whole of the day, apart from to exchange terse instructions during the backs’ training session. At dinner Owen sat with the Saracens lads, and George, whose appetite had gone AWOL, found himself railroaded into a seat between Ben and Jonny, and treated to the Dan Cole and Joe Marler show, with occasional deadpan interjections from Ellis. George laughed obediently, but he knew most of those around the table, who'd known him for years, weren’t convinced. He was almost beyond caring. His personal life had crashed and burned, and his precious rugby career looked like going the same way, however much teammates tried to convince him otherwise. Even if he went to Japan, he was destined to spend most of the tournament on the bench. George had always been the consummate team man, but he knew he could offer so much more to the team than a token 15 minutes on the pitch, no matter how often Eddie stressed the importance of the finishers' roles.

***

After breakfast the next morning, the team assembled for a meeting. Eddie beamed benevolently at the gathering and said: “Good work this week from everyone. So I thought we’d take a break today and enjoy each other’s company off the training pitch. We’ve arranged a boat ride and lunch, and the chance to see some of the area.”

George’s first thought was whether he could pretend to be ill. At the moment he couldn’t think of anything worse than several hours on a boat and having to make conversation with people. He looked up and saw Jonny regarding him worriedly. George’s attempt at a reassuring smile clearly failed.

Jonny said in a low voice: “Stick with me and Ben. It’ll be OK.”

The moment George stepped onto the boat, Joe Marler clamped his hand around George’s wrist and looped some rope around it. The giant prop then led him over to where a grim-looking Owen was sitting between Elliot and Jinx, kicking aimlessly at a table. Elliot, clearly well primed, vacated his seat as Joe tied the other end of the rope around Owen’s wrist. 

“I hear you’re a liability near water, Fordy. This’ll save someone having to fish you out of the canal every ten minutes. And no, it’s not some kinky fun for you and Faz. You’ll need to get a room later for that. I shall be keeping an eye on you, and if the rope disappears, I have handcuffs …” He twirled them around his forefinger, waggled his eyebrows at George and Owen, and then sauntered off cackling to annoy Coley and Ellis.

There was silence, and then Owen said softly: “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, our kid …”

George, aware that his cheeks were burning with embarrassment, looked up at him. “If you want to end it, you know, us … I mean, I’ll understand …” His voice was barely above a hoarse whisper.

The pain in Owen’s eyes cut him to the core. “I couldn’t stand it if I lost you. It would be like losing a part of myself. I shouldn’t have said what I did the other night, and I’m sorry. I’m not surprised you’re angry with me.”

“I’m not … Not any more …” And that was the truth. He was tired, so tired. Too tired to be angry. And the thought of life without Owen beside him was almost too much to bear.

Owen’s wrist was warm against his. “Good … We can talk if you want to …”

“Not now … Can we just …?”

Owen nodded. And when they saw all the photos later, their knees were almost touching as they talked in low voices about anything and nothing, virtually oblivious to the world floating by and to the conversations of their teammates around them. They were both smiling in those photos, completely focused on each other.

A buffet lunch had been provided on the boat. Owen and George sat in state, claiming they couldn’t move in case George tipped them both into the water. So people brought them plates of food and cans of beer, bowing ironically and tugging at non-existent forelocks. And George was starting to relax now, even taking in some of the beautiful scenery in and around Treviso. 

“You want to be a bit more picky about the company you keep, mate.” Mike Brown’s voice cut through the noise on the boat. George had always thought what an incongruously quiet voice the bloke had, given his not undeserved reputation as the angriest man in the squad.

“Fuck off. Izzy’s a good lad.” The other voice was unmistakably that of Ben Te’o. And his words were loud and slightly slurred

“He’s a homophobic cunt.”

George looked at Owen, whose face was suddenly set in hard lines. Shit, Te’o had played Aussie rugby league with Folau and he now remembered someone saying the two of them were good friends and that it was Folau who’d advised Ben to try his luck with union in Britain. George had never picked up any animosity towards him and Owen from Ben, but then he didn’t spend much time in his company.

Owen stood up suddenly, the movement jerking George to his feet. And then Coley and Marler were just a fraction too late to stop Te’o’s swinging punch that connected with Brown’s jaw.

“Fucking cut that shit out now!” Owen’s bellow could have been heard in Rome.

George swiftly slipped the rope off their wrists. Jesus, was all this fucking conflict never going to end? It felt like 2015 all over again.


End file.
